


War Cannibal Animal

by missing_boy



Series: Mr Nice Guy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Absolutely non-canon, Absolutely unnecessary deaths, Absolutely unnecessary violence, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, First Meeting, Gore, If you want fluff don't read this, M/M, Near Future, Neither Jim nor Seb are particularly nice guys, POV First Person, POV Sebastian Moran, Post-World War III, Prologue, Torture, Wordcount: 12.000, but not too much i think, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missing_boy/pseuds/missing_boy
Summary: "Look, I’m not a nice guy. I’m sitting here on a chair with a Cadet’s mouth around my cock, her left hand gripping my dress uniform, her fingertips touching the bottom of the umpteenth medal they have pinned on me today. Shiny little thing among other shiny little things, all of them utterly meaningless if you ask me. Because guess what, I’m not a nice guy, when I went out and killed twelve Russians with twelve bullets I didn’t exactly do it to save our own guys, I did it because that’s simply what I do best. Aim, breathe, pull the trigger, watch the target’s brain as it sprays through the air behind them."





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is the most fucked up bullshit I've ever written.  
> 2\. English is definitely not my first language.  
> 3\. The first chapter is short, the other two are a lot longer.  
> 4\. This story is basically the Prologue to a series of stories. The second one is almost finished.  
> 5\. Have fun :) (Or... something...)

Look, I’m not a nice guy. I’m sitting here on a chair with a Cadet’s mouth around my cock, her left hand gripping my dress uniform, her fingertips touching the bottom of the umpteenth medal they have pinned on me today. Shiny little thing among other shiny little things, all of them utterly meaningless if you ask me. Because guess what, I’m not a nice guy, when I went out and killed twelve Russians with twelve bullets I didn’t exactly do it to save our own guys, I did it because that’s simply what I do best. Aim, breathe, pull the trigger, watch the target’s brain as it sprays through the air behind them. If they want to pin medals on my chest for that, so be it. Let them have their fun, it’s not like there’s much fun for them to find anywhere else. World’s in ashes, and that’s still an understatement. I never really cared about politics, but even someone like me could see we were heading in a dangerous direction, and I’m not speaking about my kind of dangerous, I’m saying full blown World War III kind of dangerous. Politicians said we’re fine, though, while they all rallied their fanatics until, well, things slightly escalated. And when I say slightly, I mean death and destruction and more nations on war than the average human can name on the fly, all because a kid named Gabe Mitchell decided to kill a president. Simply put, the world has turned into a giant playground for people like me, the ones who don’t cry for their mothers in the middle of the night. I get it, I do, those are good people, they used to be bankers, cooks, bricklayers or whatever, and now they’re soldiers dragging themselves through the aftershocks of the most brutal war the world’s ever seen, most of their friends and family probably dead. I’m different. The war was the best thing that could have happened to me and I loved every bloody second of it. Now all that’s going on is the pinning of medals and glorified reports in the media and the remaining politicians romanticising what they call a victory. Especially the latter is quite pathetic, considering everybody called anybody the bad guys, and you can’t really say you’re a winner if your country is in ruins, just as any other country out there.

  
Anyway, that mouth is working its way up and down my cock, and the girl’s doing something weird with her tongue, causing me to quit my thoughts and focus back on the action in my nether region. She’s slowly getting the hang of it, fortunately, I’m giving her a lot of opportunities to practice after all. She served in my battalion for a few months and had been ogling me for quite some time. And you know, now that they made me Colonel and want me to show off my medals and do bureaucratic shit instead of putting bullets in people’s heads I need something else to take off the edge, and a hole is a hole. She turned out to be willing to spread her legs whenever I want her to, and yeah, that’s probably only because she is heavily traumatised by watching her squad being shred into pieces by one of the American’s fancy new grenades, but who cares? I certainly don’t, not as long as she’s not trying to crawl into my arms after I finished. And don’t you judge me now, I’ve told you before, I’m not a nice guy.

  
She swirls her tongue again, her eyes on me, her expression begging me to praise her skills, and I’m actually considering doing exactly that when the familiar sound of a gunshot bursts through the room and her face is suddenly spread all over my fancy uniform. Let me tell you, having your cock covered in blood and brain matter is not a particularly pleasing sight and I have to admit that I’m a bit startled, and I most definitely don’t startle easily. I look up, because someone has to have fired that gun, and I’m currently in our makeshift army base right outside of London, or what’s left of it anyway, and we usually don’t have people running around shooting our own. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s most definitely not that: A small guy in an expensive looking suit with a, considering the situation, inappropriate smile on his face and a gun in his hand. He puts the gun down and approaches me while I’m just sitting there with my cock out, covered in dead girl, the rest of her corpse awkwardly leaning against my thigh.  
“I considered waiting for her to finish but I got bored after ten minutes”, the man says. I’m not afraid of him, if he wanted to kill me too he would have already, and as soon as he revealed himself he lost the moment of surprise. There are no muscles underneath that fancy suit and guns don’t intimidate me anymore, I could easily snap his bones like twigs if I wanted to. And I’m really curious to learn what this is about. Because believe it or not, this kind of thing doesn’t happen to me on a regular basis.

  
The guy steps behind the corpse and pulls on her legs with his own foot, causing her to slide down my thighs and drop to the floor, all while glancing at my flaccid cock as the corners of his mouth curl further upwards in apparent amusement.  
“You owe me a happy ending”, I tell him, and the lad actually chuckles, his huge eyes slowly wandering up to my face. He’s a pretty boy, I have to tell you that, all soft and cute, and if he would be dressed in fatigues I might even consider him a hole, but taking the circumstances into consideration I know that he is most definitely a crazy son-of-a-bitch, and I try to stay away from those, because they’re more trouble than they’re worth. But there’s a large part of my brain that doesn’t care about that, and it might be highly inappropriate but I can’t help the images of him doubled over the chair, his slacks ripped open at his bottom, hands gripping the armrest as I slam into him.  
“As a matter of fact, I may even have one for you”, he says and looks back down at my cock, “But not the one you have in mind.” He nudges my cock with the barrel of his gun, and I know I shouldn’t find it hot, but what can I say, I consider shooting people from afar the most relaxing thing in the world, I may be a little fucked up.  
“You’re going to be just perfect”, the guy basically coos, and if my cock twitches while he speaks, well, shit happens. “My name is Jim Moriarty and you, Colonel, are going to work for me.” I start grinning and let my head fall slightly to the side. This is definitely the most interesting job interview I had in my life.  
“Why would I do that?” The guy, Jim, mimics my expression, looking almost excited by my response. Something is awfully wrong with him and I’m pretty sure he would set off anybody’s alarm clocks, but I’m not anybody. Which is probably why I am in this situation right now.  
“Well, Sebastian, the real war is only beginning. There’s chaos out there, which means endless possibilities for someone like me. Unfortunately I prefer my suits clean, which I can’t say about you.” Jim drags the gun through the mess on my belly and smears it across my cheek. It’s disgusting, sure, and I have to force myself to breathe through my mouth to avoid the distinct smell of blood and raw flesh, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing that hasn’t happened before, you know, the war has been long and brutal. “You like the blood on your hands.”  
“Why would I want to work with you if I can get as bloody as I possibly can, all in the name of the Crown?” Yeah, you got me, I’m bluffing. I haven’t killed in almost three months, and it’s like an itch at the centre of your back, impossible to reach and gradually becoming worse the more you try not to think about it. But besides making hell of an entrance, this Moriarty guy has to up his game if he wants me to work for him.  
“This is the first time you got blood on you since your promotion.” Literal blood, hah, what a funny guy. “Tomorrow, nine o’clock, Jerome’s Pizza.” Jim straightens himself, his free hand smoothing over his suit, as if there was any imperfection. He knows my name, my rank, and I’m pretty sure he has a file on me thicker than the one the army has, and for a man with his stature he has an awful lot of self-confidence. I wonder if people generally are afraid of him and I think they must be, given his attitude. He’s batshit crazy, that much is obvious, who in his right mind would shoot a girl off a guy’s cock because he gets a little impatient? Not even I would do that, not without explicit orders at least, and I’ve done some questionable shit. Be it as it is, it’s easy to tell that he’s used to being in charge and having power over others. And for some reasons he must have figured that shooting a girl off my cock wouldn’t end with him having more than a few broken bones, and if that doesn’t speak for a good set of balls I don’t know what does. Still doesn’t make me afraid of him. I mean, what’s he supposed to do? Torture me? Been there, done that. Kill me? I’m not afraid of death, not anymore.

  
Anyway, Jim is heading towards the door and I realise I have about a hundred questions I know I won’t ask, but there is one that I have to.  
“You know I can’t just leave here, even if I wanted to?” You know, contracts and everything, I can’t just leave the army on a whim. Jim stops moving, and glances back over his shoulder, a smug grin on his face that makes me want to rip his clothes off. And yes, I know, there’s a time and place and this is neither, but I can’t change the way my brain works, and if I can’t kill I need to fuck, but someone decided to put an early end to that, so my body is still looking for release.  
“Show up tomorrow, I’ll take care of the rest.” He hesitates for a second. “And if you ever look at me like that again, I’ll rip your balls out with my own hands.” And as he says that, his eyes suddenly turn dead and for the first time, I get why he holds himself as confident as he does. Because that expression is seriously creepy, not even taking his words into consideration. Which, I have to admit, I believe a hundred percent.  
Shit, I like him already.


	2. part 2

I joined the Army the day I turned eighteen, which means that I spent almost half my life dressing in fatigues or, if required, some fancy dress uniforms. Never had any reason to own a whole lot of civilian clothes, but I figured Jim wouldn’t want me to show up looking like a soldier, so I put on some staple shirt and denim. Bought that stuff before the war, when I still had a good few more pounds of muscles on me, but oh well, I’ve never cared about clothes, so I won’t start now. If Jim doesn’t like it that’s his problem, not mine. 

Packing takes only a few minutes. I don’t really have any personal belongings, none that I care about anyway. So I stuff a bunch of clothes in my bag and leave the rest where it is. It’s odd to see those bloody medals on the bed, my ID card and the military issued phone right next to them. Not that I’m a particularly nostalgic person, but leaving now, well, I’ve said it before, I spent almost half my life in the army, it does make me feel something. Don’t ask me what that something is, I have no idea. And also don’t ask me how Jim plans on getting me out of my contract, because I have no idea about that either, but I’m sure a man like him has his ways. Maybe I’ll ask him. 

Before leaving I make a quick detour to get a proper coffee. Can’t risk being tired at my first day at a new job, and I spent too many hours burying a corpse last night. If you’ve ever tried digging a huge hole you know it isn’t as easy as movies want to make you believe. So yeah, if I’m feeling a little worse for wear, go ahead and thank Jim for that. 

And then I’m out of the gate, never to return. Hopefully, that is. I mean, who knows what Jim’s up to. Maybe the job he offers is even more boring than being a Colonel. Yeah, okay, I doubt that too, but you never know. Maybe he’s all hot air and fancy suits and let’s shoot that bird off that guy’s cock to make an impression while he’s just another insane wannabe criminal. Again, doubtful, you don’t have to tell me that, but I’ve seen it all before. The war made all kinds of lunatics crawl out of their holes. 

Anyway, I’ve looked up _Jerome’s Pizza_ , and it’s at the southern tip of Central London. Fortunately a good chunk of the tube system is still intact, because it’s hard to travel through London these days, with the streets torn open and filled with rubble. With a bunch of stations closed along the way it should take me a little over half an hour, and I can use the time to look at the other passengers. About two third of London’s former population is dead, and without them and the tourists the compartment is awfully empty. Not that I’ve ever frequented the tube, I could never stand all those annoying idiots chatting and shouting and sweating and, well, you know, simply being annoying idiots. Right now it’s quiet at least, with only a handful of other passengers, two women with little children, an elderly man and two rich fuckers who probably managed to pay their way out of the war. Not that the bombs cared about their money, let me tell you that, even the nicer neighbourhoods were turned into wasteland. Bet they all crapped their pants when one of those bombs landed right in the middle of Buckingham Palace. Nobody’s save, not even the bloody Royals. Not that the King was home when it happened. 

Anyway, I reach my destination, get out of the tube, and oh wonder, it’s raining. The people working in the rubble don’t seem to mind, but I still haven’t gotten used to it again. And the bloody rain turns the streets into slushy, muddy deathtraps, with rubble and car pieces and broken traffic lights blocking the way. They’re using heavy machinery to help with the bigger pieces and some roads are almost cleared, but others are simply impossible to get through. So yeah, I’m glad I’ve left early because it takes ages to get from A to B. Takes me almost twenty minutes to make it four blocks, then it finally gets easier. No bomb craters here, most buildings are intact. So is the one where _Jerome’s Pizza_ is located. The street is empty, there’s no work to be done outside, and I’m pretty grateful for that because it’s only quarter to nine and I’d rather stand here at the corner and wait instead of wandering around so the neighbours won’t get suspicious. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do here, so I’ll wait and see what happens. I’ve always been pretty good at waiting and let me tell you, patience is a strong quality. Which I happen to have, I’d be quite a lousy sniper without. And fifteen minutes are nothing if you’ve ever spent eighteen hours squinting through your rifle in the middle of fucking nowhere waiting for the perfect shot. 

At quarter past nine an SUV looking an awful lot like a modified army model pulls up next to me and Jim climbs out of the back. And shit, I barely recognise him with his disgustingly slick side comb and the thick horn-rimmed glasses and the weird brown slipover. I really hope it’s a costume, because if he usually dresses like that I’ll head straight back to the base. He looks like some submissive accountant who still lives in his mother’s basement and not even his pretty face can make that look attractive. And yeah, he might have told me not to think about him that way but who are we kidding? Tell me not to do something and I’m just going to want it even more, that’s just how psychology works. Especially with naughty stuff. Accountant Jim looks me up and down, then reaches back into the car and pulls out a stack of clothes, which he unceremoniously throws into my arms. 

“Get changed”, he orders, and his voice is all handsome, bat-shit-crazy Jim from yesterday, thank God. And yes, _God_ is an euphemism, because there is no God, period. I’m a little too old to believe in fairytales. 

“What, here?”, I ask stupidly, a bit dumbfounded by the fact that he just brought me clothes. I mean, what am I, a girl he picks up for a fancy date? His bloody prom date? Is he going to kiss me goodnight after this whole thing is done? Yeah, my thoughts are straying, but whatever, I duck into the back of the SUV and put on what turns out to be a pair of jeans, a holster including gun, a thick henley and a leather jacket that looks an awful lot like the one I had when I was eighteen. And when I say an awful lot, I mean exactly alike, just with a much better quality. Which is definitely creepy. Yeah, of course, there are probably pictures of me wearing that jacket but even I have no idea where. I mean, it’s obvious why Jim chose to do this. He’s trying to impress me, the little fucker, and it’s almost working. Almost, because seriously, this kind of thing should be expected. Not necessarily the giving me a fucking replica of my own jacket part, but the extensive research one. Still, creepy. 

Anyway, the clothes fit like a glove, of course they do, and I feel a bit like one of those ridiculous movie badasses. You know, those pathetic guys who put on a pair of sunglasses and walk towards a sparsely dressed bird while a giant explosion happens right behind their back. But at least Jim seems happy, or at least not unhappy, because even when he smiles his eyes stay dead, meaning that his expression is anything but sincere. Or maybe they are and he just lost the ability to show it, who knows? I don’t really care. I’m more curious about this job than Jim’s emotional stability. No-fucking-body is emotionally stable after that war anyway, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. We’re all damaged goods, in one way or another. 

“Chop chop”, Jim says and claps his hands. And then he heads straight towards _Jerome’s Pizza_ , without telling me anything about what I’m supposed to do. So I just follow him like a dog follows its master and keep my expression clear. I’m not stupid, I know this is a test. See how I react, how I behave in whatever situation’s awaiting me. And I’m more than willing to let it just, you know, happen. Can’t be worse than having your belly cut open, can it? 

We enter the restaurant, or what’s left of it anyway. The tables are dusty, the chairs are randomly scattered around and the open kitchen is deserted at this time of the day. Two doors, one leading to the back, the other presumably to the loo. We head through the former, and the moment Jim passes the threshold his entire posture changes. His shoulders drop, his back hunches, and he even ducks his head a little. It fits his outfit now, that’s for sure. In case you were wondering, yes, it makes him a whole lot more unattractive. 

Behind the door is a short hallway and a bunch of more doors, and a hulk ducks through one of them. Literally ducks, because he’s too tall to walk normally. He’s also twice as broad as I am, and I’m definitely not slim. You might think a guy like that has to be intimidating, but let me tell you, size doesn’t matter. With the right technique even Jim could bring him down, and muscle does neither stop bullets nor does it compensate lack of brain. Not that I’m saying those guys are stupid, but let’s just say that from my personal experience most of them are. If they were smarter they wouldn’t do this kind of job. 

“I… hi… Uh, I’m Rob Gibbins, I’m looking for… Rosalie?” I can’t decide what’s funnier, and by funny I mean both strange and hilarious, Jim’s sudden high-pitched Geordie accent or the hulk’s immediate disdain. Jim pretends to be impressed by Big Guy’s frown and shifts from one foot to the other, shuffling closer to me as if he is subconsciously seeking my protection. Of course it’s a farce, but I’m slowly beginning to enjoy myself. I cross my arms in front of my chest and focus on a slightly bored expression.

“She’s waiting for you in her office”, Big Guy says and when Jim doesn’t move, he opens the door behind him. And seriously, _office_ is definitely an exaggeration. There’s a desk, yes, and a chair and two shelves filled with folders and a twenty-something sitting there as if she’s running an entire drug cartel and not whatever this place actually is. Oh boy, that girl is in for a big surprise, because the way her lips curl around the edges reeks of nothing but the arrogance of youth. I’ve seen this expression countless times before, usually on young soldiers who think they’ll be the next war hero. You might have guessed it already, but none of them became heroes. Most died, for a matter of fact. Anyway, behind the girl stands another giant, his face covered in shrapnel scars. He’s even bigger than his mate, in about all definitions of the word, but he’s blind in one eye and definitely doesn’t have full sight in the other, not with the way he’s squinting at Jim and me. Useless muscle, if you ask me, I could shoot his brain out before he’d even notice that I drew my gun. Doesn’t exactly speak for the girl. Yeah, I mean, of course there are enough people who see those huge guys and this girl’s confidence and think, oh, she must be important and powerful and dangerous, but I’m not one of them. 

“Y… you must be Rosalie”, Jim says and reaches out with one slightly trembling hand. Nice detail, seriously, but I doubt she picks up on it. She’s far too busy giving not-so-subtle orders to Big Guy who entered the room after us and now leans against the door with his arms crossed, eyes on me. Yeah mate, I'm not the source of danger here. “I’m sorry for your loss, I really… uh,really liked your father.” Okay, puzzle pieces coming together. Father runs a shady business, dies in the war, daughter takes over, thinks she can do it better. Yeah, okay, I’m making an educated guess at the last point but you’ll see, I’m a hundred percent right about it. Just makes sense, something interesting is about to happen, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. 

“Thank you”, she answers but doesn’t look like she’s grieving. Grieving people don’t smile when you give them condolences. Or at least not like it was the best damn thing that has ever happened to them. She motions Jim to sit down, and he does and pushes his glasses up his nose. Attention to detail, got to give him that. 

“Well, Mr Gibbins, I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed to see that Professor Moriarty decided to ignore my request to meet him personally.” If only she knew, hah. Oh, and what’s up with _Professor?_

“Uh… yes, apologies, he… I asked… but…” I truly wonder if Jim manages to sweat on demand. He sounds like he’s sweating, I can’t actually see it from my position behind his chair, but it would definitely perfect his performance. Oh, and have I mentioned before that I have a somewhat inappropriately timed dirty mind? Because roleplaying in bed with Jim must be amazing. Not that I’m particularly interested in this whimsy guy he’s currently impersonating, but the possibilities are endless. I'm a sucker for some good role play. Not that I've done it a whole lot outside my mind, most people I've had sex with were simply too tiresome for that, but with Jim? Yes, please. 

They’re still talking about Moriarty not being here and Jim is shuffling on the seat and I’ll spare you the details, because it’s really easy to see what Jim is doing. He cosies her along, apologises and stutters and mumbles to boost her confidence. And of course she swallows it all down. Boring, if you ask me. She’s textbook stupid and I’m not a fan of textbook. I mean, yeah, it's nice when plans work out, but she's just making it too easy. How I know what the plan is? Well, it's obvious, I've explained it before. 

“Alright, please tell Professor Moriarty that now that I am in charge, things will change around here.” Ah, slowly coming to the interesting part. By the way, I still have no idea what kind of business she’s running here, but in the end it doesn’t even matter. Drugs, weapons, human trafficking, it doesn't make a difference. 

“Oh… okay?” 

“Yes. For some odd reason my father agreed to a twenty percent cut and frankly, that’s just ridiculous. We do all the work and Moriarty gets the money? I would say the other way around is more appropriate, don’t you think, Mr Gibbins?” Even Shrapnel Face can’t hide a smile now. God, they are so cocky, I want to shoot all their kneecaps and then tell them to run for their lives. Inappropriate? Maybe, but you’re in no position to judge. 

“I… don’t think, eh, it would be wise.” 

“Wouldn’t it? With all due respect, he doesn’t even have the courtesy to show up himself, he doesn’t deserve more than twenty percent. He doesn’t deserve more than ten, but I’m in a generous mood today.” That girl is so full of herself, it’s becoming unbearable. And I remember I’m probably here for a reason, well, _definitely_ here for a reason, and if this is all a test, well, why not go with my guts? Pretty doubtful that I'm just supposed to stand here and look pretty. I slowly shift to the side until I can see Big Guy from the corner of my eye. He’s leaning against the door to my left, Rosalie and Shrapnel Face opposite me. One last deep breath to steady myself, then I let my body take over. It’s all muscle memory by now, one fluent movement as I draw my gun and fire two bullets. Number one hits Big Guy above his right ear, number two lands almost exactly between Shrapnel Face’s eyes. People don't just drop dead like they do in movies, but it's pretty close. They groan and grunt, not realising what is is happening to them, _then_ they drop, not dead yet but inevitably dying. It's not particularly satisfying, but hey, it's not about them it’s about the girl, and the expression of pure horror on her face is definitely worth it. While Jim doesn’t even flinch she clasps her hands in front of her mouth to stifle her scream and all of the sudden she’s not that self-confident anymore. She’s shaking and panting and her eyes are darting between me, Jim and her dying bodyguards. I still kinda want to shoot her kneecaps but I think she’s had enough for now. 

“Please don’t kill me!”, she yells through her fingers, tears beginning to stream down her face. Yeah, definitely had enough. 

“I think you were right about the ten percent”, Jim says now, still in the role of Rob Gibbins but with less submission. She’s too upset to consciously notice the change anyway, but she’ll get the message. Oh, she’ll definitely get the message. “How about… ten percent for you, ninety for Moriarty?” She only sobs, pathetic little girl that she is. All those well rehearsed lines, this is definitely not the way she pictured this meeting to go. Yeah, this is almost becoming fun. 

“Well?” Jim leans forward, putting just a little bit more pressure on her, and she nods fanatically while whimpering and crying and sobbing and behaving nothing like the badass business woman she pretended to be mere minutes ago. Jim gets up and flattens his slipover. 

“A pleasure making business with you, Rosalie”, he says softly, "I will tell the Professor how cooperative you've been." Nice touch, really, but totally lost on her. She's far too busy hyperventilating to notice the subtle threat, it's a shame. Jim carefully steps over the pool of Big Guy's blood and now that his back is turned towards the girl his face slacks and suddenly it's all Jim behind those awful glasses. I wonder if I passed the test as I follow him out of the building. I mean, yeah, I could ask him but I probably won't get an answer anyway, and it's more fun to just go with the flow and see where this will lead me. Because let me tell you, there's no such thing at the army. They talk and discuss and plan and track your tiniest movement so they can write it all down in minutely detailed reports. Not that everything always plays out the way it's planned, especially not during a war, but not for lack of trying, believe me that. 

"I really wanted to shoot her kneecaps", I say instead, and Jim chuckles. Well, at least I think he does, I can't exactly see his face while I'm trailing behind him. 

Outside the SUV is now parking right in front of the restaurant and a boy with only one hand is leaning against the bonnet. Haven't seen him before, but he must be the driver. The car's front's separated from the back through a black panel, which is definitely not standard equipment, but of course Jim prefers to have his privacy. Can't have nosy drivers listen to your phone calls when you're, like, the king of the underworld or whatever. Anyway, when the kid sees Jim he almost drops his mobile and all but runs back to his seat. Jim rears them well, he really does, but if he thinks he can make me act like that, he's wrong. 

"Do you own a phone?", Jim asks me suddenly, and I think it's the first time he's actually looking in my eyes today. Rob Gibbins is definitely gone, but those glasses, they're horribly distracting. And because I'm not his driver who's intimidated by Jim's sheer presence I reach out and pull them off his face. Oh, remember when I told you about Jim's eyes never really participating in his expression? The surprise I can see now is a hundred percent real, and he might be able to control it after the split of a second but it's too late. I've noticed, and if I'm grinning a little bit smugly, well, nobody can blame me for that. 

"You look better without them", I tell him, "And no, I left my phone at the base." I fold the glasses and hand them to a still hilariously baffled Jim. 

"Maybe I should have you shoot your own kneecaps", he says, and while that threat is entirely stupid, I mean, how on earth would he make me do that anyway, I know exactly that I’ve almost crossed the line. Emphasis on almost, because Jim seems just as impressed as annoyed. But maybe it’s better not to go too far on my first day, so I take a step back and avert my gaze. Jim snorts. He’s not stupid, of course he knows I don’t actually feel threatened. I mean, how am I supposed to? He’s physically weak and unarmed, and insanity alone doesn’t work on me. 

“Here”, Jim then says and pulls something out of his pocket. It’s one of those awful greeting cards, with two doodled snails on the front, the bigger one handing the baby snail a shell, saying _Congratulations to your first home._ It’s so cheesy I can’t help but laugh. I mean, come on, try to picture Jim standing in front of a rack trying to find the most horrible of all cards. It’s kind of cute, actually. I open the card and find a key glued inside, an address written below in an incredibly neat handwriting. Sloane Court East it says, and if I’m not mistaken that’s in Chelsea, presumably close to Sloane Square station. I’m all but a local, I grew up in the Irish countryside and never spent that much time in London, but it’s never wrong to learn something simple as a tube map. 

Oh, yeah, I know I should probably focus more on the fact that I’ve been just given a key instead of boasting about my talent of memorising maps, but again, I can’t change the way my mind works. Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely feeling a little odd with that key in my hands, like someone gave it to me on our second date, which, in case you were wondering, would be about two million dates too early. God, the thought alone makes me shiver, be in a relationship and move in with someone and have breakfast at Sunday morning. Never really done that before, and I'm not planning to. 

“Cute”, I say, folding the card back together, “Did you pick that one all by yourself?” Remember me telling you about not overstepping? _Or did your mother help you_ is the second part of the sentence, but I rather don’t say that. Jim looks annoyed enough as it is, but I am who I am and if he wants me, he has to live with that. 

"You'll find everything you need at home", he says, then turns around and gets into the SUV, and I just stand there and grin as he drives off. Time to check out that address he gave me.

As it turns out, Sloane Court East is indeed in Chelsea, and my _new home_ is in a nice little building off the main roads. No bomb has landed here and it almost looks like the war has never happened. Never look a gift horse in the mouth etcetera etcetera, so I won’t complain, but I’d have never chosen such a neighbourhood by myself. Like, some of these houses even have gardens, neatly kept as if the world around them wouldn’t be in ashes. Rich fuckers, that’s what they all are. They probably get out the good china every afternoon to have a nice cup of tea and gossip about Auntie Helen’s new haircut or whatever. 

I unlock the door to my new flat and find myself in a small room with nothing but a clothes rack and a circular staircase leading up. Two steps, and suddenly I hear some noises from upstairs. They sound like a chair scraping over wood, and then a muffled yelp. Great, of course Jim couldn’t just hand me keys to a flat, he’d leave a present as well. And as it sounds, that present is even alive. I shouldn’t be surprised, I know, but I didn’t think too much about what may lay ahead of me and apparently I should have. Jim told me I’d find everything I need at home. And it seems like what I need are two kids strapped to one chair each in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Literally kids, by the way, because they’re definitely not eighteen yet. It’s a girl and a boy, both gagged with one of those sex toy ball gags, thank you very much Jim. I hover in the door frame and watch as they stare at me, the girl calmly, the boy heavily fighting his restrains and making noises like an animal in pain. 

“Great”, I say, more to myself than them, and drop my bag. What am I supposed to do with them? Raise them as my own? Keep them as pets? Use them as pleasure slaves? Neither option sounds particularly appealing. 

“Be quiet, for fuck’s sake”, I tell the boy and he immediately follows my order. Jim’s not the only one who can be intimidating. 

“I have no idea why you’re here, so I’ll take the gag out and ask you some questions, okay?”, I ask the girl as I approach her, trying to sound soothing. Which is bullshit anyway in a situation like this, but the girl nods, drool flying through the air and landing on my new jacket. Perfect. I reach around her and unfasten the strap. When the gag comes loose she moves her jaw and swallows, her eyes set on me. She’s dressed in dirty clothes, both kids are, and they haven’t showered for a couple of days. They’re kids who won’t be missed, if you know what I’m saying. 

“Please, please”, she starts but I immediately interrupt her with a brief hand gesture. 

“Who brought you here?” 

“A… a guy…” She’s tough for a girl in her situation, I have to give her that. She hasn’t averted her gaze for a second. 

“Small, dark hair, huge brown eyes?” Yeah, I know, it’s highly unlikely that Jim brought them here personally, but I have to ask. But of course she shakes her head and describes some generic guy, and I interrupt her again. 

“Any idea why you’re here?” 

“No…?” Again, worth a shot. But I have the feeling that they’re here for no specific reason at all, except being obviously part of another test. Probably just two kids who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

“Are you… going to let us go?”, the girl asks, and I give her a tiny smile, which I hope looks halfway reassuring. It’s a lot easier if they’re not panicking, although the boy is again panting heavily behind me. 

“In a minute. Let me take a look around this place first.” I’m not going to do anything before I haven’t checked the entire flat for clues.Don’t want to end up doing the wrong thing because I’ve missed Jim’s instructions written on the lavatory seat or anything. 

There’s nothing written on the lavatory seat, but the flat turns out to have two bathrooms, both large and clean and surprisingly modern. There are also two bedrooms, although only one is furnished, or at least partially furnished, with a bed and a closet and two bedside tables. I throw my bag on the mattress before I return to the hallway and take a look at the kitchen. And I may not be an avid reader of those tasteful living magazines but even I can tell that this huge PE barrel isn’t a standard feature. It also says _neutralise me after use_ , and if that isn’t a hint I don’t know what is. I carefully open the bolts and lift the lit, but the smell of whatever chemicals inside is so strong I have to close it straight away again. Well, at least it’s good to know what I’m supposed to do with the kids. 

What, you didn’t think I’d let them live, did you? I mean, that was entirely out of the question. Got to say, I’m a little disappointed if my next test truly is to see if I’m capable of killing two innocent kids without asking any questions. Of course I am. Where’s the difference between murdering a child and murdering an adult anyway? I mean, where’s the line? Kid turns eighteen and suddenly it’s not a kid anymore so it’s less horrible to kill them? Human is human. And don’t you dare judging me now. Look, I don’t kill for sports, it usually doesn’t give me any particular pleasure, and yeah, if you order me to shoot a six year old point blank I will, because it’s my bloody job, no questions asked. 

When I return to what seems to be the living room the kids are still on their chairs. Obviously, because where would they go? The girl is impressively calm and her jaw is tight as she follows my every move with her eyes. The boy, however, has peed himself, and he’s crying like a baby when I approach him. Better to kill him first. I step behind his chair and wrap my arms around him, one hand on his chest, the other on his face. Kid’s terrified, his heart racing, breath elevated, sobs shaking his entire body, and I know he’s about to scream so I move my hands quickly. The bone cracks as his neck snaps. But unfortunately, well, at least unfortunately for him, I apparently failed to transect his spinal chord, because while he stops breathing, he’s still very much alive. Happens. Don’t worry, he’ll choke soon enough. The girl’s next and she may have been calm before, but now she’s fighting me with everything she has. Which isn’t much, but I have to cover her mouth with my hand to keep her from alerting half London. Usually I’d tell her that if she would stay still I could give her a swift and painless death but considering the fact she can currently watch the other kid suffocate miserably I doubt this would work. So I use force instead, and at least I do it right with her, because she goes straight into spinal shock and dies. When I look up, the boy has lost consciousness. Easy step done, now the fun part begins. Yeah, I know what you think, this guy just killed two children, how can he be so cold? Well, two more don’t make a difference when you’ve already lost count years ago.

Anyway, I cut the bodies loose and drag them into the kitchen. And because I’m not a cruel person, despite whatever you think, I’ll spare you the details of what I do next. I’ve seen a lot of disgusting things but holy shit, this is a whole new level of disgusting. Because let me tell you that much, there’s no way I can let whatever chemicals are inside the barrel dissolve an entire body at once. And if you thought the chemicals smelled badly, well, be glad you can’t smell the goo that forms as soon as I drop the first body part into the liquid. Or have to see it, for that matter. When the flesh starts to peel off the boy’s skull I barely make it to the kitchen sink before what little is in my stomach comes straight back out. I’m just glad I haven’t eaten since yesterday. 

The chemicals slowly but steadily do their work and I use the time to go through the cupboards. They’re all empty but for one, where I find a medium sized canister. Probably to neutralise the barrel afterwards, or I hope that’s what it’s for and that I won’t accidentally build a bomb and blow up the entire block. But Jim can’t expect me to be a bloody chemist. The girl’s legs are the last parts, thank God, and I drop them into the body goo. Believe me, this is anything but fun. I mean, my kind of fun is to be somewhere in the middle of nowhere with my eye pressed to a scope. Not be in a room which right now looks more than a slaughterhouse than a state-of-the-art kitchen. 

When it’s all done I neutralise the chemicals, or at least I think I do, I’m not going to put my hand in to find it out, and put the lid back on. I’ll dump it in the river as soon as I get hold on a car, for now it can stay here. I’m not much of a cook anyway. I clean my army knife but ignore the rest, the kitchen is tiled so it doesn't matter, I'll deal with the mess later. It's not like I have cleaning supplies anyway. But it’s only early afternoon by now, enough time to go shopping and get me started. Although I first have to go through the kids' clothes, because I don't want to miss anything. A man like Jim has most certainly planned more than this, and thoroughness is something that's probably desired for whatever job this is. Or is going to be, whatever. And tadaa, there's a tiny piece of paper in the boy's inside pocket. Feels a bit like playing paperchase, which I've always enjoyed. On my eighth birthday my Mum sent me and a few kids from my class on a huge hunt all across our village and the nearby forest. We were supposed to play in teams but I went by myself and, of course, won, coming home hours before the others. Took me years to understand why my Mum was disappointed when I ran towards her waving that tiny box that, to _my_ disappointment, held nothing but chocolate. She never prepared a paperchase for me again, but my grandfather did two years after, and he didn't even try to invite other kids, he just handed me a riddle and sent me into the forest. It took me all day and half the night to figure it out, but the box I ultimately found hidden buried two feet deep below a tree root didn't contain some stupid chocolate but my grandfather's old rifle. There was a crack in the scope and the trigger wasn't working but from that day on I spent every possible second in the forest, body on the ground, squinting through that scope and playing pretend. So yeah, if you wonder how I became the man I am today, you can at least partially blame it on my grandfather. And my Mum, but that's a different story. 

Anyway, the paper from the boy's pocket has an address written on it, and _Say hi from Al Turner_ in Jim's handwriting. I know the street, it's about a ten minute walk from here. Like the good boy I am I get changed, straight back into my staple shirt and worn out denim, and head out. It takes me twice the estimated time because I may know the street from looking at a map, but that doesn't mean I can find it easily without having one. I can draw you a perfect map of Moscow though, if you'd ever need one. Not that I'd encourage you to go there, if you thought London looked bad, well, Moscow looks worse. We made sure of that, hell, _I_ made sure of that. Added some famous names on my hit list over there. 

But back to more important matters. The address turns out to be a convenience store and I head straight in. Maybe I won't have to kill someone for a change, I mean, wouldn't that be nice? Not that I'm complaining, but right now it feels a little useless. I have zero problems killing people but I'd rather do it for a better reason than just to prove Jim that I'm capable doing it. For fuck's sake, my file tells him that. And yeah, maybe you are sitting there wondering how I can be so stupid, but I still have no idea what Jim's trying to accomplish with this. But I'm curious and I still don't want to go back to the army and play Colonel, so I'll go deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole and try to figure it out.


	3. part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry. I started a new job and forgot I never posted the last chapter... (not that anybody reads it anyway, but hey. That's what you get for starting a new account :D )
> 
> Anyway, here's part 3 of 3. The second story is halfway written though I'm not sure when I'll be able to finish it. Working full time in a creative job is kinda draining my creativity.

The guy behind the counter sits in a wheelchair, and he gives me a rather unfriendly look as I approach him. He's definitely military, and not in the way basically everybody is nowadays, but like me. Kept the haircut and the posture, and his eyes aren't screaming severe PTSD the way so many others do. He went into that war with proper training and a whole lot of purpose.  
"Russia or Germany?", he asks me.  
"Russia." He nods slowly and points at his own legs. Or, as I see now, what little is left of them.  
"Germany", he says. Yeah, poor Germans. For once they didn't really do anything but somehow still ended up caught in the middle. But that's what you get if you can't choose sides and pretend to be above everything. And in case you were wondering, yes, that poor was sarcasm. They got what they deserved if you ask me. Bootlicking only gets you so far, and you don’t get out of a war by saying you simply don’t want to be part of it. Not this kind of war anyway.  
"What can I do for you?" Ah, right, I'm still in the store, and this guy is still staring at me.  
"Al Turner sends me." The guy's face lights up as I say the name, obviously recognising it. Probably another one of Jim’s alter egos.  
“Of course he did! Follow me please.” He opens the door behind the counter and rolls through, and I, well, I follow him. “Mr Turner has already paid for everything, you can choose freely.” This convenience store is quite convenient, I have to say, because holy shit, this guy has it all. We’re in a backroom now, and the walls are full of racks, and those racks are filled with every kind of weapon you can imagine. Literally. As long as you can carry it with your hands, this guy seems to have it. It’s like a toy store for grown ups with itchy trigger fingers. I mean, the good old Dragunov hangs right next to a German prototype that never actually found any use, and if I’m not mistaken that’s an Indian grenade launcher in the corner.  
“Mr Turner informed me you are looking for a sniper rifle, anything specific?” So I’m in sniper heaven. There’s everything, seriously, even a variant of the exact same rifle my grandfather gave to me.  
“I’d like to stick to my guns”, I say, because while that German prototype definitely looks appealing, when it comes to the perfect shot it’s also about knowing your rifle.  
“AS50b, I suppose?” The modern variant of a classic Army rifle and my go-to weapon. Lightweight, high accuracy, bunch of technical details you don’t care about, and the bonus that you can put in explosive ammunition. And believe me, I had some fun with that. Blowing up people shouldn’t be fun, yeah, yeah, I know. Keep your speech for someone who cares about it. I take the AS50b from the rack and weigh it in my hands. I’ve spent countless hours squinting through that scope, holding it always feels a little like coming home. And I know how it sounds, you don’t have to tell me, but deep down I’m just a boy in the forest playing pretend. Only that I haven’t actually been in a forest for years, I’m well past thirty and the people I shoot aren’t imaginary anymore. But besides that, it’s all the same.  
“Fabric new, never fired a single bullet.”  
“I’ll take it.” Yeah, that baby’s mine.  
“Mr Turner thought so, too. He had me custom paint one for you. Let me get it for you.” So much for free choice. I mean, yeah, my choice wasn’t hard to guess, but still. Jim, that little fucker. Maybe I should’ve picked the German prototype, their engineering is exquisite. Most definitely better than their warfare, that one’s for sure.  
“Here we go”, the guy says as he rolls back in, a box on his lap. He hands it to me and I open the lid and, well, it’s definitely an AS50b, but instead of plain black it’s covered in tiger stripes. Actual bloody tiger stripes. And I have no idea what Jim’s trying to tell me with that. It’s definitely tacky, awfully tacky at that, but maybe that’s Jim preference. I mean, yeah, Jim with his fancy suits, he definitely has a thing for tacky and flashy and whatever.  
With the box in a bag I leave the store a couple of minutes later. There was a Tesco on the way, I’ll just stop there for a second and get everything I need to get me started in my new flat. You know, with a rifle and five hundred rounds in a plastic bag. And then I’ll examine the rifle, because I doubt Jim’s paperchase is over and right now, I have no clue what the next step may be. Maybe he wants me to demonstrate my skills with the rifle or something similarly useless. A car approaches the junction I’m currently crossing. Why am I telling you this? Because the car slows down but doesn’t stop, and before I have the chance to react it hits me and sends me flying through the air. I feel the impact, and fuck, suddenly the world’s upside down and I know this isn’t good, how could it be? What a shitty way to die, seriously. What a shitty way to die.

 

 

I’m not dead. Waking up feels the same as ever, warmth seeping through the darkness long before the pain hits. And there has to be pain, I’ve been hit by a bloody car. But at least I’m not dead, which is something, right? I mean, I have survived a lot worse. Last time I woke up like this I had four bullets in my body and a young medic sitting next to me, freaking out as she tried to keep me from bleeding out.  
Something hits my face, and that’s enough to snap me out of the warmth, and yeah, there it is, pain everywhere. It’s still dark, I can’t see shit, but my left wrist is definitely broken. So are a bunch of my ribs, because breathing hurts like hell. No idea if I have internal injuries, no idea how hard I was hit, no idea what actually happened. That car could have stopped, couldn’t it? It could have stopped but it didn’t. The street, the junction, it definitely could have stopped. And shit, I can’t focus right now, my head hurts and it’s desperately trying to get back into gear and I just can’t think. I have to, I know that, believe me, I do. It’s just not as fucking easy as it sounds.

  
My face gets hit again and my eyes snap open and I’m back in reality. Which is worse than I could have imagined. Because I’m not on the street, or a hospital, or anything, I’m on a chair and there’s a guy in front of me who looks like the stereotypical underling from a cheap action movie. Seriously, I’d be amused by that if my situation wouldn’t suck that hard. Because I might be a little dizzy but I’m not stupid. This is Jim’s doing. Jim ran me over, or had me run over, and believe me, if I can get my hands on that little fucker I’ll kill him. Or bend him over a table, fuck him raw and then kill him. Still a bit on the fence about that.  
“Good morning, sunshine”, the guy says and I decide to direct my anger at him, at least for now. One step after the other. Be a fucking soldier, you’ve been through worse. And with you I mean me. Oh, and I’m in an old warehouse, how fucking cliché is that? Maybe I’m actually stuck in a cheap action movie. Or Jim just loves cheap action movies, but if he does, I really have to reconsider working for him. Fuck that, I have to reconsider anyway, because he ran me over with a fucking car and now I’m strapped to a fucking chair just the way those kids were a few hours ago. And yeah, I have to calm down and focus. It’s what I’m good at. I test the restrains but they’re well done, I can’t move an inch. They’re how I would do them, which is definitely a bit infuriating. One hand tied to each armrest, rope around my chest and my ankles.  
“So what’s in this for Jim?”, I ask the guy. I mean, you know what I’m thinking so obviously you know I’m upset, but believe me, this guy can’t tell. My face doesn’t show my emotions if I don’t want it to, and he has no business knowing about them. The guy gives me a confused look that won’t win him any acting awards, and he tries to pretend that he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but again, I’m not stupid. Not that actually knowing it’s all Jim’s doing is of any help right now. Well, it means that I probably won’t end up dead. Or… well, or the contrary. The guy hits me again, this time using his closed fist, and fuck me, that really came unexpected. I spit out the blood collecting in my mouth. I’m trying to think here, and this guy is not helping. Seriously, not helping at all.

  
Alright, soldier up and focus. A warehouse, approximately 5000 square feet, several old machinery to my left, a gate right in front of me, doors leading to offices to my right. About sixty percent of the lights are broken, another ten are flickering. The chair is a simple wooden construction, I could easily topple it over. But, you know, if the chair doesn’t break I have a problem, and even if it does, I’m injured and the entire process would take too long to catch the guy by surprise. I need a weapon or something.

  
The guy walks around me and I can hear something metal scraping over the floor. A small table probably, placed so that I can’t see it no matter what. Smart. I wonder if it was his idea or Jim’s. While the guy is busy doing whatever I try to move my right hand to the edge of the armrest. With a little luck I should be able to reach the knot, and if I can get a hold of that, I’ll get out eventually.  
“Open up”, my captor says as he comes back, a rag in his hand. I have no idea why he bothers with a gag, really, we’re in a warehouse, even if he’d manage to make me scream I doubt there's anybody around who could hear me. But you know, I don't need my mouth to kill him and the rag looks almost clean, so why not? If it makes him happy. I let him stuff it into my mouth, and it's almost funny to see how surprised he is that I'm not resisting. Seriously, what am I supposed to do? Violently shake my head? No thanks, I already have a headache, no use in making it worse.  
Anyway, while he works on the rag I still try to reach for the knot but with no success. I can't push my wrist over the edge. I mean, I could, but he'd see that. Again, it's nothing I can do fast enough to surprise him. So I have to sit and wait while he gets something else from the table. I mean, yeah, I have two hands, but I really wanted to avoid moving my left. My wrist looks horrible and my palm feels like a piece of raw flesh. Must have subconsciously tried to stop my fall with it, and asphalt and skin are not particularly good friends. My left knee seems to share that fate, I can see the huge hole in my denim and the dirty wound underneath. Considering the rest it's a minor injury, nothing to worry about now.

  
He returns, holding a sharp wedge of wood and a small hammer, and oh, I will kill Jim and I won't be nice as I was with the kids, no, I'll make him suffer. What is this, for fuck's sake, medieval Spain? We have the late thirties, nowadays we have technical devices for torture. I should know, I was held captive by Americans for four months before some new political bullshit made us allies all of the sudden. And they have some neat tricks when it comes to torture, let me tell you that. But this, right here? This is ridiculous, because I'm not even here for a real reason. If you get caught during a war, well, shit happens, but that's just how war works. If you're caught by someone who wants information, yes, torture may make sense, but Jim doesn't want anything from me, this guy doesn't want anything from me, and here he is, preparing my right hand with the fucking wood.

  
Screw my broken wrist, I'll get out of here, if only to show this bastard what I can do with a tiny piece of wood. And I'll spare you the details, but as he starts hammering the wedge underneath my fingernail it takes me everything to keep myself from screaming. I close my eyes, because that's all I can do, seriously. I've been through some shit, and I've definitely been through worse, but it's right up in the top ten, let me tell you that. Another swing of the hammer, and fuck me, maybe it's even in the top five.

  
I move my left hand to the side and okay, maybe I'm wincing by now, but that's all that bastard is going to get. I grunt when the first nail comes off, finally, because it gives me some space to breathe, and breathing helps me focus and I definitely need to focus right now. I manage to reach around the armrest and thank God, there's a knot. And yeah, seems like I’m an extraordinarily lucky guy today, because that guy might be smart enough to not tie my wrists together, but he definitely doesn’t know his knots. Idiot used a bunch of half hitches, which is tedious but absolutely doable.

  
I'll get out of this. Knowing that makes it a lot easier to endure the pain when the guy puts the wedge underneath the second nail, and I focus on the knot instead. I'm sweating like a pig and my fingers are stiff and raw and my head feels like it's going to explode, but I just have to push through it. Not like I have a choice. I'm working on instinct here, open the knot, open the restrains, get out, kill the guy. You can do it, just breathe. In and out, in and out, while one half stitch comes loose after the other, and fuck me I cannot stop myself from screaming when the second nail comes off, but because a little more pain won't make much of a difference I use all my remaining strength to pull my left hand free and slam my fist into the guy's face. And then I'm screaming, like, really screaming, because broken wrist and skull are not a nice combination. Not that it stops me. The guy dropped the hammer, which fortunately landed in my lap, and I force my fingers to wrap themselves around it before he can pick it up again, and strike out for a blow against his temple. Something in my wrist cracks, like a piece of bone breaking of, and I can't hold the hammer any longer, but the guy goes down anyway. He's more or less unconscious now but I definitely didn't hit him hard enough put him out for long., so I have to hurry up a bit. Which isn't easy, believe me, my left hand is almost entirely useless, but I reach around until I touch the metal table. There has to be a knife somewhere. Something sharp cuts into my finger, not that it matters, but I grab whatever it is, it's sharp, that's all I need to know. Turns out to be a scalpel, and I cut myself loose as quickly as possible. Which, I have to admit, isn't all that quick. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug when it comes to pain, but I'm simply not physically able to show off my fine-motor skills.

  
The guy groans just as I'm kicking off the rope around my ankles and I lunge forward before he can get up. Not my smartest move, in case you were wondering. The impact knocks the air out of my lungs and of course I land on my left knee, but I have no time for that now. I pin the guy to the ground and wait until he fully manages to focus on me, realisation dawning on his face, then I ram the scalpel into his left eye. The guy screams and convulses underneath me, and I pull it out and start stabbing his face, aiming for his cheek, mouth and nose. I don't want to kill him, I want to hurt him. He tries to put up a fight and he could easily win if he'd aim for my wrist or ribs, but he's panicking far too much for that.

  
I'm actually a quiet level headed guy, so it doesn't take long for my anger to dissolve itself, and stabbing the guy becomes tedious. It's not satisfying, and it hurts, and I want to lie down and breathe, and the guy has had enough. Seriously, he deserves this, and I kinda wish it would be Jim instead, but his screaming and yelping is making my head hurt worse and there's simply no use in continuing this. I slit his throat, putting an end to all this, and drop the scalpel. I could be in my bed on the base, a Cadet riding my cock, but no, I'm in some fucking warehouse with broken bones and missing fingernails. Amazing, really. Just how I imagined this new job to go.

  
I roll myself off the guy, who's busy bleeding to death, and try to get up, but of course my damn knee has to give in underneath me and I fall straight back to the ground, my cheek landing in the pool of blood. Perfect, this is just perfect. Remember when I told you I was curious about what this job entails? Yeah, fuck that. Fuck everything. The adrenaline is slowly but steadily leaving my body, and I'm just laying there on the floor, breathing through the pain. I know I should get up, you don't have to tell me that, but I don't want to. It's fine for now, just a brief moment of silence to get my strength back. Just one second.  
"Wake up." My eyes snap open, shit, when have I even closed them? Did I fall asleep? I didn't, did I? Fuck, my eyes have trouble focussing, but I don't need to actually see him to know who is hovering above me. Of course it's bloody Jim, who else would it be? I groan, because I don't have the energy for anything else. I don't even want to kill Jim anymore. Far too exhausted for that. Jim's back in his suit, and he's crouching beside me, a soft smile on his face. No idea what that smile means.  
"Sorry about your wrist. I told Pavel not to give you any lasting injuries but it seems like good staff is hard to find nowadays." He chuckles. Because this situation is so fucking funny. "Thanks for taking care of him. I wouldn't have been that creative."  
"You're fucking welcome, Jim" My voice is laced with sarcasm, and Jim barks out a laughter and pats my head. Seriously, I have no idea what's wrong with this guy, if it's supposed to be condescending or whatever, this entire situation is just too awkward. I mean, what the hell is going on here? I pull myself in a sitting position, ignoring my body's protest.  
"You do realise this is a rather... extensive job interview for... an underling?" Talking is more difficult like this, I definitely have more than one broken rib.  
"Oh please, disposables can be found everywhere, I'm not looking for an underling. I have... great plans, but I can't do all the work on my own. I need a right hand, someone in the shadows who knows the game, and who is not afraid to take action no matter the consequences." Jim's smiling again, that little fucker. I mean, he looks like we're just having a tea party, not like I'm some beaten mess sitting in my own and a dead guy's blood. But okay, he needs a right hand. And yeah, you probably think I'm crazy, but that actually sounds quite interesting. Not that I'm forgetting about this right now, you know, the car and the torture and maybe even the goo in my kitchen, but I'm still curious about this job.  
"So... I passed your test?" Jim's lips curl downwards.  
"Sebastian, don't disappoint me now. Why would I test you? I know everything about you already, there's no need for a test."  
"Then why..." Okay, wait. No test. Now that he says that, it actually makes sense, but I'm not sure what his reasoning was if not that. I mean, why would he put me through this? Except... yeah, of course, he knows me, but I don't know him. If he wants me to work for him I have to know what that means. "Ah. You gave me a sneak peek." I know I'm right when Jim's smile returns.  
"I did. Although I actually had planned something with a little bit more action but there is a rising politician who needs to die, so I had to speed things up a little. Question is, do you want the job or not?" My attempt at a chuckle sounds more like a grunt, but I'm sure Jim gets the message. What the fuck would a little more action involve? I've killed five people today in three different ways.  
"Do I have a choice?"  
"Uh, well, we both know you're stronger than me, even now, and I'm unarmed, so you could probably kill me and just leave if you're really not interested." I am interested. I have been from the first second on, I can't help it. I'm still impressed by his demeanour, and as long as he's not planning to have me tortured every fortnight I'm even okay with this entire thing. You know, I get it, a right hand isn't just anybody. Such a position requires trust, and I believe Jim when he says that's what he's looking for, and trust doesn't come easily. You may be wondering how exactly torturing someone creates trust, but in my twisted mind it totally makes sense. It's the honesty, you know?  
"Yeah, we both know that's not... going to happen." I won't kill him, and not only because I'm far too tired to fight.  
"Of course not. You need me." Yeah, he's probably right about that. Everything hurts, yes, but I haven't felt that alive in months.  
"Funny, and I thought you'd said you needed a right hand." Don't have to tell him he's right. He knows that anyway.  
"Cheeky boy." Jim reaches out, grabs my broken wrist and squeezes, and fucking hell, that came unexpected. Can't stop the groan that's escaping my mouth, and I try to pull back, but he has me in a tight grip. "Don't worry, I'll cut you some slack since it's your first day." Cutting slack he says, but instantly squeezes again, followed by an amused chuckle.  
"What, you like it when I'm moaning?", I ask hoarsely. Jim lets go of my hand and cups my face instead.  
"Oh, all the fun we will have together. Come on now, tiger, we have some work to do."

TBC


End file.
